


Susceptibility

by Dach



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angband aftermath, Angst, Blood Loss, Frustration, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Russingon, Self-Esteem Issues, Sickfic, Tolkien Secret Santa 2k17, anemia, sorta???
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 11:12:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13122528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dach/pseuds/Dach
Summary: Elves are well-known to be among the most resilient creatures on Arda, so when the effects of blood-loss begin to steal away his strength, Maedhros isn't prepared to face his own weakness. Fortunately, he doesn't have to do it alone.





	Susceptibility

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dragon_of_ice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragon_of_ice/gifts).



> Hey there! This is my contribution to Tolkien Secret Santa 2017. My giftee was egobarriart on Tumblr (dragon_of_ice on here). Hope you enjoy!

Naturally, the first time that Maedhros fainted, it was while holding a goblet of water.

He awoke some time later, slumped over a small oak table with little red indents in the pale skin of his cheek from the rough wood grain. A groggy glance over the edge of the table confirmed his silver goblet had fallen to the floor, where the water within had long since spilled out over the deep red carpeting and colored it a shade darker.

After several moments, Maedhros sat up, clenching the seat of his chair with his right hand and cautiously rising to his feet. The headache that he’d harbored for several days now had steadied into a painful pressure in his temples and pounded seemingly just behind his eyes. Maedhros ignored the pain as he groaned softly and bent to pick up his goblet, then placing it back on the oak table and walking unsteadily to his bed. Face grim, he pulled the blanket off of the mattress with a weak grip, wrapping the heavy quilt around his shoulders and shuddering in both relief and the cold he’d tried to ignore earlier.

“Eru…” the elf grumbled under his breath. He sat down stiffly and began knuckling the muscles in his upper thighs, hoping to ease the cramps that had begun to twinge dangerously. He cast a longing look towards the fireplace. The ashes were still too damp from being doused the night before to start a fire; a pity, seeing as the cold stone walls of the turret he resided in certainly didn’t warm the room any. “Fingon?” he called out. No reply. Maedhros’ lips twitched into a frown and he reached out to take the half-empty waterskien off the bedside table. He downed the water within, gulping without thirst.

It seemed like taking the edge off of his headaches was all he was doing, nowadays. Still not having recovered completely from the tortures of Angband-- Fingon tried to console him by telling him that he had already made more than sufficient progress in his healing-- Maedhros felt tethered to his room. He couldn’t leave it, for fear of collapsing of lightheadedness while on his way down the turret stairs. Nor could he escape it in his dreams.

Each time he closed his eyes, he could feel almost tangibly the sharp nipping of frosty wind at his exposed torso, neck, and face. He could feel the thin ledge beneath his feet and the biting cold of the shackle around his wrist: the only things that kept him from plummeting down the face of Angband towards a death that he was no longer so averse to. He could see dull lights from the forges of orcs beneath him, alight almost constantly as if beacons in the frigid, hazy air. Smudges of dark-- almost black-- smoke spiraled up from the forges, dissipating above Maedhros and spreading to cover the sky and mask Varda’s stars and Arien’s sun.

And then Maedhros would open his eyes to see only the faded tapestries on the stone walls of his room. The aspect of feeling cold never changed no matter his environment, and so he always found himself pulling whatever clothing he wore tighter around himself, as if to block out the chills despite the fact that they felt as if they were emanating from somewhere internal. Even now, just thinking about it made Maedhros pull the corners of his quilt closer to each other and shudder, back hunched under the patterned squares of cloth.

“Maitimo?” Fingon’s concerned voice made Maedhros’ head snap up, eyes wide with surprise.

“Fingon,” he breathed, relieved.  _ Finally.  _ “I need you to take a look at me.” Before his cousin could respond, Maedhros continued. “I know you have not found anything as of yet but… look again, Fingon. Please. You will find something. There is something wrong.” Maedhros knew that he was being more insistent this time than he’d been in the past and hoped that it would be worth it. Fingon sighed.

“I’ll take a look but I cannot promise anything. Maedhros,” Fingon bit his lower lip for a moment, as if trying to figure how best to phrase what he wanted to say.

Maedhros resisted the urge to just urge his cousin to be “out with it.”

“This- this hangup- is simply part of the healing process. I know-”

“That’s fine,” Maedhros cut in, getting halfway through the motion of standing up before being overcome with lightheadedness and forced back onto the bed. “That’s more than fine.”

Fingon’s eyes swept over Maedhros’ body, lingering on the white bandages wrapped around the stump where the other elf’s left hand had once been. Maedhros noticed it but said nothing, keeping the quilt wrapped around his shoulders as he stood again, this time far more slowly. “To the window,” Fingon said, nodding towards the alcove window-seat just beyond the shelves of medical materials. Maedhros nodded and, more eagerly than he was willing to admit, walked unsteadily towards the seat in the stone wall. He sat with enough force to actually force a short huff of breath out of himself. Fingon walked right by Maedhros to the medical supplies.

“What do you want me to look at?” Fingon asked, not looking over as he brushed his fingertips over the caps on small crystal vials of salves. “I don’t think that there’s much to do about…” he nodded at Maedhros’ arm, resting in his lap-- or, to be more specific, at the stump where the elf’s hand had once been-- “but I could numb the pain, should it still be of critical effect.”

Maedhros shook his head. The hurt in his wrist had faded to an ache and was easy enough to ignore. The cold had worsened the pain slightly but, to be fair, it seemed that it had worsened everything as of late. “I’m not entirely sure. Everything?”

Fingon’s lips curled into a sad smile-- one that was honestly more of a grimace than anything else-- as he reached out to pick a vial off a shelf. Fingon had been no expert at healing initially, but, in light of Maedhros’ “incident” and current events in general, he had become more than proficient in the art. Maedhros was personally relieved that his cousin had become so adept. “Define ‘everything.’”

Maedhros pursed his lips slightly then exhaled so hard that it was a sigh. “I have headaches. They aren’t going away. My fingers are numb. I’m always exhausted-- fatigued, if you want to go with the technical term. I can’t breathe-- or my body isn’t getting the same gratification from it. I’m aching all over. I’m dizzy. Eru, I just fainted.” Fingon’s eyes widened but Maedhros waved him off with an almost dismissive air. “I’m more pale than normal-- believe me, Fingon, I know that I’m pale enough as is. This is an unnatural pallor.” He held his hand aloft, so that the winter sun shining through the panelled window made his obvious veins evident through his translucent skin. “Fingon, even my mouth is sore! Surely, these symptoms can’t all be of correlation?!”

Fingon didn’t immediately answer, brow furrowed as he unscrewed the cap on a vial of salve and dug some of the dark substance out with two of his fingers. “They aren’t. They’re the result of blood loss. I’ve seen it before.” He pursed his lips.

Maedhros wanted to yell in frustration. ‘ _ That’s it?!’ _ he thought, incredulous.

“Now pull down your shirt.” Fingon’s instructions snapped Maedhros back to reality in time to see the dark-haired elf nodding towards his sleeping shirt. Maedhros compiled at once, pulling down the collar with his one good hand and tilting his head back to look up at the ceiling; he knew the drill. Fingon reached forward and, with the hand without the salve, brushed the Maedhros' dull red hair past his shoulders to leave the unnaturally pale skin of his neck and collarbone area exposed. Expression placid with gentle focus, Fingon smeared the salve across Maedhros’ skin, rubbing it in so that it warmed slightly as the strong smell of peppermint wafted upward. “You’re cold,” Fingon noted quietly, more resigned than surprised. Maedhros grunted in response, his skin beginning to tingle as the cold salve was spread over it.

“That’s another symptom-” he began unnecessarily, before being interrupted by his own cough. “Does it have to be so strong?!”

“What?”

“The salve!”

“Well, if it wasn’t, it would do absolutely nothing to clear up your headache. Have you been drinking water?”

“Yes.” Maedhros’ nose twitched as he began to detect the undertones of rosemary in the mess of scent that was making his eyes water. Fingon raised an eyebrow, as if skeptic. “Yes, Fingon,” Maedhros confirmed, scowing, “I have.”

Fingon glanced around and took a step toward the bed, plucking up the waterskien that Maedhros had drank from earlier. He shook it and looked halfway relieved to find that it was, in fact, empty.

“Thanks for the confidence in me,” Maedhros snarked with little heat, making to stand up. Fingon nearly dropped the waterskien and, before Maedhros knew it, his cousin’s hand was pushing him back down against the frigid stone of the window seat-- that forced a small gasp from Maedhros-- and tucking the blanket more securely around his shoulders. “Fingon!” Maedhros protested, a little indignant at the treatment. He rolled one shoulder and sent his cousin a half-hearted glare, trying to convey that of this-- standing, that was-- he was at the very least capable.

“There’s something up with you, Maitimo…” Fingon muttered, eyebrows drawn together with concern.

“That’s hardly a surprise, seeing as I left-”

“Not physically,” Fingon cut in. Maedhros clenched his jaw to stay silent. “At least, not in this instance. You’re… less…” Fingon drew in a shaky breath; the vulnerability of the sound somehow hurt Maedhros. “You aren’t quite as capable of the same internal strength. You’ve grown frustrated, stretched thin. You’re becoming susceptible in more ways than one. It is to be expected, I suppose.”

Maedhros glared. He knew that Fingon harbored-- at least to some degree-- the same frustration with Maedhros’ newest weaknesses as himself. “My frustration is well-warranted, cousin.”

“You know I do not mean it under any insulting premise,” Fingon responded, meeting Maedhros’ glare with a disconcertingly even gaze. “Nor an entire one.”

“Yet you still mean it, even if in part.” Maedhros paused, in part to de-escalate his own defensiveness, in part so that no tremor, none of the shame that he felt so tangibly, could seep into his voice. He knew, on some level, that was Fingon said was true.

Fingon frowned. “I do. I think I can help you heal some of this, Maedhros, but only the physical part. I need you to be patient with yourself.”

“I’ve been patient,” Maedhros protested. Fingon drew back slightly but looked unsurprised. “At this point, if you need to cut off my foot then so be it! I can come up with a substitute, and I would gladly sacrifice ease for the sake of being something-- anything-- other than a deadweight in this turret!” He hadn’t yelled but he might well have had, tears now glinting his eyes as he trembled minutely. This time, the shivering wasn’t entirely from the cold.

“I know, Maedhros,” Fingon murmured. “I’m aware. But cutting off your foot, your hand, anything- that isn’t going to solve anything. There is no quick route to recovery. You cannot forge your own shortcut here, you can only walk the road that you’ve been lucky enough to keep access to. You  _ need to realize that. _ ”

“Enough with the metaphors, Fingon.”

“I’m serious, Maedhros. You very nearly lost your life. I doubt that anyone could have easily survived that-- even yourself, elf though you may be. Please, just be satisfied with what we have. You will recover in time.”

“'In time' isn’t good enough!” Maedhros insisted.  _ ‘Why will he not grant me this?!’ _ “Heal me, Fingon!”

"Maitimo, I cannot," Fingon beseeched. Maedhros exhaled heavily. "At least not immediately. Blood is integral enough that related weaknesses can affect even your elven body. ‘Tis so integral that we can do naught but wait, allow nature to run its course and your strength to replenish itself. In the meantime, I can do little."

" _ Little _ is still  _ something. _ Where do we start?!" Maedhros inquired impatiently. Fingon stared at him in apparent confusion so he elaborated, "If it will take time aside then procrastinating will accomplish nothing. Indeed, I’ll remain this weakling for a while yet."

Fingon pressed together his lips at the word “weakling”, looking conflicted. “You must heal more, before I can begin anything.” He paused. “And that is a fine line you walk there Maedhros.” Maedhros raised an eyebrow, confused. “You are not completely weak, simply less capable than you are adjusted to.”

“Enough to qualify as weak, nonetheless,” Maedhros argued, fists clenching at his sides.

“You are not weak, Maitimo!” Fingon burst out, sudden enough that Maedhros nearly reeled back. “Yes, you are not capable of the same feats, but there is a significant difference between being weak and  _ healing _ . Give yourself a break.”

“Do you not understand, cousin?” Maedhros demanded, his words fervent but quiet. “This is not the time to heal. This is a time to fight! And if I am incapable of doing so I may as well be one of these tapestries!” With his good hand, he motioned around the room at the faded weavings hanging on the walls. “Leading a battalion?” he asked, standing and ignoring the initial rush of dizziness that washed over him. “No. Try,” he stabbed at one tapestry with a finger, “‘Graceful Elleth Dancing in a Meadow.’”

“That actually isn’t the title,” Fingon began wearily. Maedhros ignored him, blood pounding and traces of black beginning to border his vision. He knew as well as Fingon no doubt did that he needed to calm himself, yet he refused to.

“Combating enemy forces?” the red-haired elf pressed on. “Oh no. Try ‘Evening Imladris Scene.’” He spat the tapestry title with disdain, so incensed that he was almost disgusted by its relating depiction.

“Maitimo!” Fingon cut in, voice sharp. “Have patience with yourself.” Even as Maedhros opened his mouth protest with the vehemence that was settling in his stomach, Fingon continued. “I  _ know _ it’s torturous.”

“If you  _ know _ it’s torturous,” Maedhros responded immediately, nearly hissing, “you would give me the means to escape these wretched bonds of uselessness!”

“I cannot give you anything more, Maitimo,” Fingon tried, reaching forward to grasp Maedhros’ hand between his own two. His palms were warm. Maedhros swallowed and clenched his jaw as his cousin spoke, trying not to jerk away and succeeding by a narrow margin. “You have your life. You have the resources to rid yourself of this temporary hinderance. You have the ability to heal. You have  _ me _ . You must be satisfied, Maedhros, lest you break yourself reaching for a reality that cannot yet be.”

Maedhros remained silent, hardly breathing. Black encroached on the edges of his vision but he ignored it, swallowing thickly. It hurt to keep things in perspective. It hurt so much that Maedhros almost couldn’t guilt the many that chose the route of oblivious loyalty: so many of his cousins; his friends; possibly even Marion in his allegiance to Morgoth. But Fingon was right. He had to stay strong in whatever sense he was able. Maedhros swallowed again and consciously did his best to clear the haze of pride from his head.

The room was a lot more quiet than he had initially realized.

Eventually, he inhaled, breaking the silence as he stepped forward. He could feel his frustration beginning to abide. The clench in his chest faded and his shoulders slumped as his breath began to escape him. He swallowed again, mouth a little dry. Then, he inhaled shakily, taking another half step forward and wrapping his arms around his cousin, beginning to finally relax as the other elf slipped his arms around his waist and leaned up to kiss his jaw softly. As Fingon’s soft lips left Maedhros’ skin, the red-haired elf tilted his head up to rest his chin on the other’s head, eyes closing with exhaustion. Their breathing was not synchronized and occasionally either Maedhros or Fingon would inhale more deeply than normal, breaking whatever rhythm they’d held. Eventually, their breaths evened out.

“It’s…” Maedhros trailed off, fingers lifting past Fingon’s chest to absently and rather blindly roll one of his gold filament-threaded braids between his fingers. “My susceptibility… it’s difficult to adjust to. I’m not comfortable with it. At all. And I have no power to change it.” He was laying himself bare; it was always a dizzying sensation. Maedhros sighed, lowering his hand to rest on Fingon’s waist. “I don’t like giving up the little power I seem to have left, Findekano.”

Fingon inhaled sharply at the use of his mother-name; the speaking of it was not something that Fingon, nor Maedhros took lightly. “I’m aware, Maitimo,” he replied quietly. Maedhros pulled away, gazing down at his cousin with a gaze that even he could feel to be soft. He smiled gently.

“I know you are. I’m sorry for behaving as if I believed any differently.”

“It’s okay, Maitimo,” Fingon replied, his smile breaking into a grin. Maedhros, relieved, couldn’t help but to grin himself, dizzy for a new reason.

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> In case you were wondering, the symptoms that Maedhros was experiencing are actual [symptoms of anemia](https://www.mayoclinic.org/diseases-conditions/iron-deficiency-anemia/symptoms-causes/syc-20355034). They were brought on by his iron-deficiency (due to the blood-loss incurred by getting his hand cut off back in Angband). 
> 
> Leave a comment/kudos if you're up to it! I really appreciate them all :)


End file.
